Hierarchy of Desires
by Laurie Bunter
Summary: A vignette series featuring the H&C cast. Topics include love, art, the male gaze, food, and even Yamazaki's insane wardrobe. Pairings include Hagu/Takemoto, Hagu/Shuchan, and some Yamazaki/Miwako.
1. Hierarchy of Desires

_**Hierarchy of Desires**_

by Laurie Bunter

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Summary: During his hours off from work, Professor Hanamoto still manages to do some teaching... even if he gets mixed results.

characters for this installment: Professor Hanamoto, Hagu, Ayu Yamada

timeline: Chapters 20-21 of the manga.

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Disclaimer: _Honey and Clover_ is written and illustrated by Chica Umino.

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Professor Hanamoto had been waiting for this moment.

He knew that he shouldn't be amused to know that Hagu finally snapped. She sat, hour after hour, staring at the huge blank canvas in the back room without moving, without speaking… perhaps without even catching her breath. Her eyes were shiny with trouble. Her cheeks were flushed.

Hanamoto knew that a fever was imminent. There was nothing he could do about it except check the medicine cabinet and wait for the collapse.

He wondered why he bothered to get his PhD. in art history if all he was destined to do what play nurse-maid to his little ward.

"What's wrong with Hagu-chan?" Yamada whispered, as if she was visiting a hospital ward.

He lit another cigarette and inhaled deeply. "She finally realized that what she wants is totally different from what she needs."

Perhaps it was not the right person to hear that pronouncement, but the sentence was waiting to be said out loud. Hanamoto knew it, the moment he saw Hagu fingering the old-fashioned wooden duck brooch at her neck, fretting like a lovesick fairy tale princess.

He wanted to shake her by the shoulders and say, "hey, your failed trip to the art shop with Morita doesn't equate rejection, you little ninny," but… to say that aloud would be devastating. And not just to Hagu either. Hanamoto didn't know if his bruised ego could take it. He felt bad enough, as it is, that Rika Harada relied more on Mayama now…

The professor sighed. Takemoto may be skilled at making miniature Rococo furniture, bless his simple heart, but Hanamoto knew instinctively that Morita made the brooch. It didn't belong in any hard-bound art book meant to be copied by struggling art students. It had a rustic charm he couldn't quite place.

It was just like the pink mules. It was silly and nostalgic.

Only a young woman on the cusp of disaster would be troubled by such a small token of affection.

Yamada shook off her clay-stained apron to reveal a frilly blouse and her favorite Magritte-patterned skirt. She moved towards the stove to make tea. "I don't understand what you mean, Sensei. Is there a difference between what one needs and what one wants?"

Hanamoto pulled himself back to the present. His mind had wandered. He rubbed his forehead in a futile manner. How could he explain this concept to Yamada? Perhaps it was impossible, Yamada had her own relationship problems. Still, Hanamoto was never one to give up trying to make a student comprehend a lesson.

He randomly selected two items on his desk. "Pick one," he said, "and only one."

Yamada peered at his opened palms to see two objects: a pocket knife and a brass replica of Henry Moore's _Reclining Figure._

"Is this a joke?"

"No, it's not a joke. You asked me a question, and I ask you one in return."

"You're not serious, Sensei."

"I swear," Hanamoto said, "this is a legitimate exercise in lateral thinking."

"But what do I need it for?"

Hanamoto wanted to grit his teeth. "That's not the point of the lesson, Yamada. You must pick one."

"Do I get to keep it afterwards?"

Hanamoto groaned. "Of course not. These things are mine."

"Then why are you asking me to pick?"

"You asked me a question. This is my reply in return. Now _choose._"

"May I examine them both?"

Hanamoto couldn't believe it was taking her this long. "Go ahead."

Yamada turned both items over with her hands. The pocket knife was getting rusty at the joint but the edge was still sharp. Its nicked blade was proof it was used for inappropriate tasks like carving wood and turning screws. If Sensei said she needed an object for survival on a deserted island, there would be no question about it.

The tiny Henry Moore figurine, however, was a definite puzzle. Yamada laid down the pocket knife to examine the exquisite treasure. How did Sensei managed to obtain it? She may be a ceramics major but she did know some things about sculpture. She turned it over to look for a signature; yes, it was there. If this was the real thing – or even an authorized copy – it was worth a hefty sum. She knew Sensei collected old Japanese prints, but this item should be out of his salary range. There was no logical reason why Sensei should have such an object and yet, it was here. What did this sculpture mean to Sensei?

"It's too difficult to choose," she blurted out. "They are both so different."

_Finally. _

Her wide eyes unfurled under such long lashes. "Oh."

"So you finally got it?"

"Maybe," she said. "But what's this got to do with Hagu-chan?"

The professor sighed. _Perhaps not._ "Everything and nothing at all."

He reached for his cigarette once more. Apparently it had gone out. He still nibbled on the stub, thinking it over.

"This is the crux of the problem. For some people, even two choices are one too many."

Yamada was not listening. Perhaps it was a sensitive topic for her. Instead she cocked her head, as if she heard something stirring in the alcove. "I'll check on Hagu-chan. She may have fainted again, poor thing."

Hanamoto nodded. He knew that Hagu hadn't fainted – but perhaps something he said disturbed Yamada. He slowly got up, and moved the pocket knife and the figurine back to his desk.

When he turned around, he realized that the kettle was whistling. The water for the tea, now boiling merrily on the stove, was forgotten. Hanamoto sighed and turned the flame off.

_Too many people expect me to pick up the pieces,_ he thought.

He wondered, not for the first time, what he awful deed had he did in a past life to deserve this treatment. Whatever it was, he hoped he enjoyed it damn too much.

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More to follow.


	2. Closet 1

Summary: Takemoto knows he's just another piece of furniture to her.

Timeline: Chapter 15 of the manga. (Volume 2.)

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**Closet I

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Hagu was asleep in the corner, as if all the art in the world had exhausted her soul. She lay there limply, with that menacing poodle snoring beside her.

Takemoto wasn't jealous of the dog at all. In fact, he got so absorbed into the Herculean task of making this Versailles suite, he almost forgot about Hagu's presence in the room.

_That's about it. Any more wood shaven off, and these delicate inverse C-scrolls will break off. Just a little bit of sanding on top… there. Where's that new special varnish? _

It was only slightly larger than the palm of his hand, but in his eyes it was a perfect copy of Madame du Barry's mahogany armoire that once occupied a place in the Petit Trianon.

_That's the problem with me, isn't it? _Takemoto sighed. _I'm good at copying things down to the last curl. Give me a ton of references and I will reverse-engineer any structure. But when it comes to making something new out of nothing… I simply fall apart. _

His eyes drifted over to the girl, whose eyes took in everything, whose hands performed amazing feats of creation.

The girl. He wished he didn't feel so much for her that it left his chest feeling hollow inside.

If Takemoto could build himself a new heart out of hardwood and metal, one that didn't ache with longing and low self-esteem, would he still be the same man?

He didn't know the answer to that question. He didn't know he was even subconsciously asking himself such things. Skimming on the surface of his own thoughts, ignoring the obvious, he did the only thing he knew how to do automatically: Takemoto continued working.

He tightened the tiny screws, then gently oiled the hinges of the new armoire, wiping off the excess oil with care.

Takemoto studied his work with satisfaction. There. _Now_ it was perfect.

The tiny doors opened up to reveal a fine empty space. _Hagu will fill this with doll clothes soon,_ he thought._ Perhaps without a second thought to the long hours that have gone into it. _

_I am like a good piece of furniture. Comfortable. Functional. Attention is only drawn to me when I cease to work properly. _

Takemoto's maudlin thoughts ceased only when exhaustion overcame him. He fell into a deep sleep, his hand curled around his tiny creation.


	3. Closet 2

Summary: Yamazaki reconsiders the contents of his wardrobe.

Based on the bonus chapter in volume 6.

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**Closet II**

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The empty space was now bursting with shirts and vests that he didn't buy for himself. He had scores of colorful slacks and designer jeans, and dozens of shirts and jackets that he couldn't afford on his junior architect salary. Even if Yamazaki scrimped on the non-essentials, he would have gone bankrupt six months ago if he had charged all these items to his credit card.

_This wardrobe belongs to her, _Yamazaki thought. _Every single thread here belongs to Miwako-san. _

Yet like every cuckold in love, he was the last to know the truth that his lady was playing him for a fool.

Everyone at Fujiwara Architects knew that the firm funded Yamazaki's designer wardrobe. The guy from Accounting was rather vocal about the problem, everyone else kept their mouths shut upon the threat of death by doggie tongue bath. Miwako-san and Leader made a threatening combination when cornered.

Yamazaki, of course, remained blissfully unaware of the situation. All that he knew was that if she demanded all the clothes back on a whim, he would have nothing left on his back except a badly inked tattoo and some questionable Wile E. Coyote boxers. He had tossed out all his old togs long ago, to make closet space for her monthly gifts.

He thought the world about Miwako-san, of course. It never occurred to him that she wanted him to look like a buffoon.

Yamazaki was merely grateful that she knew that he was alive. The fierce joy that emanated from that thought made him stand up taller and straighter. He couldn't help but smile more. Her gifts made him work smarter and faster. He couldn't help, sometimes, to strut around the neighborhood and feel like that he owned the world.

His confidence level soared with each new shirt, no matter how garish. He could take on peacock feathers, neon sequins, embossed metallic robots, animal prints and heraldic devices on any shirt that came bearing the words "from Miwako-san."

Yamazaki took a faintly macho pleasure in the idea that her hands must have fingered the fabric at some point or another. How could she have not, when she selected each item with such loving care?

It was almost as good as the thought of her one day touching him intimately for real. The hope was distant, but still... wasn't he allowed to dream?

And Yamazaki's daydreams of Miwako-san always made him smile.

And that's the charismatic self those fashion photographers of M Street Magazine always captured: a young man smitten, for better or for worse, with his older female colleague. Optimism always turned on the light bulb of charm inside his head, illuminating his smile from within.

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_Sorry, I could NOT resist writing this vignette for Yamazaki and Miwako-san. They have got to be my favorite josei side-characters. XD_

I will write more when the mood strikes me... it all depends on whether a new volume comes out that inspires me.

_Feedback, by the way, is always lovely. Hint, hint. _


	4. Hagu and the Male Gaze

_Summary_: Hagu contemplates feminism.

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**Hagu and the Male Gaze**

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It occurred to Hagu that she knew instinctively why she would not work out with Morita. Early on, it had to do with the way he saw her.

The agony of sitting still, motionless like a Venus de Milo on a pedestal, waiting for him to take whatever photo of her… Koropokkur might be the nickname that stuck, but real Koropokkurs had the right to move when they felt like it.

Her hands, tightening on that overly large leaf, might as well have been cut off. She might as well be made of marble for all that he wanted from her.

Takemoto was just the same, but in reverse. He watched her work, his breathing coming out in small gasps, not letting his existence disturb whatever brilliance he saw in her. She wasn't happy to be viewed through the rose-colored lens known as genius, because it only made her self-conscious. Nothing broke her concentration more than the need to ponder if her work would be received and misunderstood with fulsome praise.

And that's why she loved Shu-chan best. He just didn't look. He listened. And he made all things possible.


	5. The Illusion of Hunger

Mild spoilers: Chapter 43 (volume 7).

Summary: Takemoto contemplates his stomach. His navel, not so much.

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**The Illusion of Hunger**

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The moment those nasty words flew out of Rokutaro's mouth, Takemoto's heart sank to his stomach. Suddenly, he remembered what he had been trying to forget:

_The sound of his empty refrigerator, the ceaseless, frenetic humming that sent him running away._

In that instant, Takemoto remembered snatches of the past months and years, as if his life was told through a series of meals that was now flashing before his eyes -

Mayama buying him another piece of tempura, to make up for the feelings of sophomoric inadequacies that griped him -

The contented slurping sounds Hagu made, hunched over a chocolate custard as they sat in the university cafeteria -

The salty, protein-rich meals in Lohmeyer-sempai's room, and Morita's half-hearted bribe of curry croquettes -

The sputtering of battered fried food, freshly fished out of fryers all over the shrine festival grounds -

The delectable scent of tongue grilled to perfection by Hanamoto-sensei vis-a-vis the bland, watery vegetables served at the local hospital -

The burden and heft of three kilos of raw beef, weighing down his heart just as Morita weighed down his back -

and tea, always cool barley tea in a thermos, quenching his thirst on summer nights spent out-of-doors with his father as they watched fireflies and the sparse cityscape.

Those were good times.

Takemoto was never a greedy eater, although his appetite was always better when there was someone there who'd fight over the last piece of tendon with him.

Hunger was supposed to drive him, fuel his ambition and give him a reason to want more out of life.

_But that was the whole problem, wasn't it?_ Takemoto thought ruefully. When he was on his own, he was never hungry enough to _want_ to eat. And he had spent so much time of his senior year being isolated, running from job interviews to working on his final project, that he never noticed how many meals he missed.

His ulcer was not a sign of neglect, it was his insides crying out for some company.

The empty refrigerator in his mind didn't want to be filled with condiments and foodstuffs, all the things that money and success could buy. It wanted, desperately, for someone to open that door and peer inside.

It was then Takemoto knew whose hand he needed to grasp, if he wanted to fill the emptiness.

He didn't need Hagu to return his love. If she only made him a special sandwich - for once, something that was only for him - Takemoto knew his heart would be full forever.


End file.
